Juliana Garnett (33 page)

Luc’s mouth tightened. “If I never saw the wolf again, I would not care. But it would please my lady to have her back. Do you help or not?”

“Ah, a great Norman lord asking for help from a Saxon churl? I can die happy now, for having heard that.”

“Lest I am tempted to hasten that happiness, lend me your aid in summoning the wolf. Ceara says the beast knows you.”

“Aye. She does. If I call her, she will come. But do I call her to her own grief? The wolf trusts me. I do not wish to betray that trust.”

Leaning forward, Luc fixed the old man with a stern eye. “Neither do I wish to betray a trust. My lady wants her pet returned to her, and I swore to do so. Would I harm the animal after plowing through snow and field to find her?”

Sighere did not reply for a moment, but surveyed Luc from beneath the tangled shelf of his bushy brows. Then he nodded. “I wondered as to the kind of man you be. Some say you are just, but Kerwin bought his life from you for an oath, so I did not know whether he spoke from truth or fear. You have offered peace, but also given strife. Your king is a dread lord. No man who thwarts him lives long. And you, Lord Luc of Wulfridge? What do you offer the people of your lands?”

It was insolent. Another lord might have slain the old man right there, but Luc had spent too long among peasants not to recognize stiff pride and the promise of unyielding loyalty. To win over a man like Sighere would be worth ten barons like Oswald.

Luc held Sighere’s gaze and answered softly: “I offer peace and prosperity. It will not come without a price, but that is the way of things. Those who rally to me will have my sword and my protection. What is mine, I keep. I allow no other to abuse those who belong to me.”

“And those who oppose you? Who refuse your protection?”

“Will be dealt with accordingly. In these times, a man who is not a master must choose a master. I chose mine, and I chose well. William is a strong lord, and will hold what he has taken. Just as I will.”

Sighere leaned back on his stool and pulled his crutch to him. He rose with the aid of the gnarled branch and took a limping step forward. Then he slowly knelt and put out his hands, palms together in the same gesture of fealty the barons swore.

“Once I was a young, strong man, a master-at-arms for my lord, his housecarl, then his loyal huntsman when I could no longer fight. My station is low, but I am not without pride. My
honor comes from serving an honorable master. We Saxons are a proud people, used to being our own masters in ways that Normans do not understand. Yet I see the way the wind blows from Normandy, and have seen with mine own eyes the honor of men who are not Saxon. You are a fierce man, my lord, but a just one. I swear to serve you, if not with a sword, with my honor and my life.”

Luc gravely covered the old man’s hands with his own and accepted his oath. “Now rise, Sighere. You are welcome at Wulfridge and in my hall.”

Sighere rose clumsily to his feet and stood proudly a moment, swaying a bit with the crutch under his arm but his body held stiffly straight. Then he smiled. “The wolf will go with you, my lord.”

C
EARA PACED
the floor of the solar with growing concern. Dark had fallen, and still Luc had not returned. The fool—he did not know this land as she did. He should not have been so determined to go alone, and if not her, at least taken another who was familiar with the bogs and forest.

Candles flickered on the table, and a draft swept across the chamber to stir wall hangings and bed curtains. Ceara paused. She stood stiff and still, listening with rising tension. Were those hoofbeats in the courtyard? No, of course she would not hear them, not here in the solar when the hall was so thick with people.

But she held her breath when there came a muffled sound from the corridor outside the solar, and moved slowly to the door that led to the antechamber. It was quiet—until the door was flung open, and Luc filled the portal, smelling of wind and snow. Her throat tightened, and as glad as she was to see him, there was no wolf at his feet.

“My lord … were you—”

A yelp rent the air, and a brown and white mass of matted
fur pushed past Luc. Ceara knelt, her legs too weak to hold her erect any longer, and Sheba bounded across the floor to reach her in almost a single hop. A wet tongue raked her face from chin to brows, smearing tears of gladness and relief. Ceara grabbed Sheba around the neck, pressing her face into fur that smelled of mud and smoke. Her voice broke a little as she murmured, “Oh, Sheba, silly cony … where have you been?”

Luc watched, leaning against the door frame with his arms folded over his chest, his voice dry. “I warrant that I would not rate such a welcome were I to be gone near a week from you.”

Between swipes of wet wolf tongue and ecstatic yips, Ceara managed to say, “You underestimate yourself, my lord.”

He smiled as she looked up at him from the floor, trying futilely to calm the excited wolf. “I met a friend of yours, Ceara. He sent you his regards.”

“A friend?”

“Sighere.”

“So that was where she went.” Ceara shook Sheba with hands curled into the thick ruff of her neck, scolding her without much firmness. “You did not come when I called, wicked wolf. Shame on you for being so willful.”

Sheba flopped onto her belly and put her head between her paws, but there was no real remorse in the gold-brown eyes. Fringed white lashes flickered briefly, then she put out a paw in a gesture of conciliation. Ceara took the paw in her hands and turned it over. Mud and ice crusted the thick white hair between the black pads of her paws, forming hard little balls. She bent to the task of working them free, and when she glanced up again, Luc was gone.

His silent departure left her feeling suddenly bereft, and despite her joy at having Sheba back, she could not help a pang of sadness. There were moments when she thought she had touched him in some way, when perhaps he felt fondness for her. Was she more to him than just a possession? He claimed he held what was his, but had said nothing about love. He had gone
after Sheba, but was it because he had sworn to retrieve what he considered his, or because he wanted to please her?

Sir Robert’s tale had explained much. But he had not touched on how Luc felt about her. And she did not know how to discover the truth for herself.

Never had she accepted defeat well, and it was no different now.

Sheba nudged her, cold nose digging into the cup of her palm, and Ceara stroked the great head, sighing softly. It should be enough that she was lady of Wulfridge and had her beloved pet back. But she knew it was not enough anymore. Unless she could win Luc’s heart as he had won hers, nothing would ever be enough.

“Still sitting on the floor, wife?”

Her head jerked up, and Luc was there, looking weary but indulgent. He wagged a mutton joint, and Sheba sat up abruptly to stare at the treat with intense interest. A low warbling moan began low in her throat, escalating into a full howl, with head thrown back and eyes slitted, the black lips of her muzzle folded over her curved teeth.

Pushing away from the door, Luc tossed the mutton and Sheba leaped agilely to catch it in her great jaws, teeth chomping down on the meat with relish. Then she trotted to the far side of the chamber and sprawled on the stone with the mutton held between her paws.

Ceara glanced up at Luc, and he grinned. “I felt I had a better chance winning the wolf from you than you from the wolf.”

“Perhaps you did not try the right inducement.”

“Perhaps.” The smile still lingered on Luc’s mouth as he crossed to her and held out his hand, and she put her fingers into his open palm and allowed him to pull her to her feet. “Do you not wish to know about Sighere?”

“Is that your inducement? I had thought you more inventive, my lord. Jewels, or fine cloth from the East.”

Luc swung her about, catching her around the waist with
one arm. His smile faded, and there was an intensity to his gaze to equal that of Sheba’s. “I kept my promise, Ceara.”

“Yea, lord.” She put her palms lightly against his chest, her voice soft. “I had no doubt you would succeed.”

Some of his tension eased, and he swept up a hand to cup her chin in his palm. “Liar.”

She laughed. “Yea, lord, so I am at times. You should punish me for my willful ways.”

“You jest, but do not think I have not considered it, especially when I was knee-deep in snowdrifts.”

She kissed the underside of his jaw, along the faint, jagged scar that marked his skin. Dark beard stubble tickled her lips. “If you had not gone, you would not have met Sighere. Did you like him?”

His arms curved around her. “He was not what I expected from a former huntsman.”

“He is a Saxon. Once, there were not class distinctions here as there are in Normandy. It was only when Normans brought pride of position to England that it became the mode to say one man was better than the next.”

“I do not agree. There were Saxon kings, earls, and thegns.”

“Yea, but the gulf between was not as wide then.” She laid her face against his chest, feeling the strong beat of his heart under her cheek. Then she smiled, and tilted her head back to look up at him. “You smell sheepish, my lord husband. Do you wish to wash away the scent, or is it your preference to sleep in the stable?”

Luc grimaced. “I slept there last night. One of my men suggested I seek other lodging this night, for my temper disturbed the horses.”

“Cheeky wretch.”

“I could not chastise him. He was right.” Luc peered at her with a gleam in his eyes. “If I am to be forced to bathe, I demand assistance.”

“I am certain we can arrange that.” Ceara spread her hand
against his chest, pushing him away from her. “I will send for Rudd to bring a tub and soap, and buckets of hot water.”

He caught her hand when she stepped away, holding her. “And you to wash my back.”

Contentment bubbled inside her as she promised, and she thought as she moved to the door that if he had not yet said he loved her, he felt it. Soon, he would say the words, would give her his heart as well as his name, and then her world would be complete. Soon.

J
ANUARY PASSED, AND
the calends of February was fast approaching. Winter had gripped the land in icy talons and prevented Robert and Amélie from continuing their northward journey. Evenings were spent in the great hall with music, minstrels, and games of chess or backgammon, long lazy nights when the best spot was by the blazing fire. Even a short distance from the flames it was cold, with icy drafts whistling around corners and seeping between layers of clothing to chill flesh and spirit.

Robert de Brionne was impatient to be on his way, to be rid of the lady he was to escort to Malcolm’s court. “It is wearing to hear her constant complaints in my ear, Luc. How did you ever bear her harping?”

“It was not her art of conversation that attracted me,” Luc responded dryly, and Robert had to laugh.

“Admittedly, she is passing fair, but for her sharp tongue. Ah, Luc, would that I had accepted the king’s first offer to court glory in Normandy. Then I would not be here with fair Amélie and your lady wife looking daggers at one another every meal.”

Luc shrugged. “Ceara has little patience with Amélie’s demands.”

“No, she has little patience with Amélie’s attempts to gain more than just your attention.” Robert gave a grunt of irritation. “I vow, the lady liked you less when you were still vying for her favors than she does now.”

“Ah, Robert, do you really not know that that is the way of some women? There are those who will flee at the slightest hint of rejection, and those whose appetites are only whetted by being spurned. If a man wants to win the heart of fair Amélie, he would do better to show her his back than his smile.”

Robert looked up from the flames dancing on the hearth and regarded Luc thoughtfully for a moment, before he nodded his agreement. Juggling the dice in his hand, he tossed them to the game board without glancing to see how they fell. “She is a proud dame. I pity Malcolm’s cousin, for he will not find in her the comfort you have found in your lady.”

“There are those men who prefer constant challenge to harmony.” Luc picked up the dice, rolling them in his palm with an idle motion. He glanced toward the end of the hall where Ceara stood with one of the young Saxon servants.

Robert followed his gaze. The wolf lay at Ceara’s feet, returned again from a fortnight’s disappearance. No one knew how the animal had left the castle, but she had suddenly vanished one morning, and as suddenly reappeared without explanation two weeks later. Ceara had feared that one of the soldiers had harmed the beast, but now Sheba was back, although still wary when armored soldiers hove into view. Natural enough, Robert supposed, since the wolf had near been run down by Oswald’s man before Christmas. He turned back to Luc.

“What news of Oswald?”

“None.” Luc frowned and rolled the dice against his palm with his thumb. “He swore no oath, to me or to William. But I did not expect it.”

“What do you expect?”

Glancing up, Luc tossed the dice to the game board. “I expect that when the weather eases, Oswald will announce his intentions with a sword.”